


try to forget how it feels inside

by endofadream



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, M/M, post 4x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofadream/pseuds/endofadream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But this Ian is so different from that Ian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	try to forget how it feels inside

Mickey’s been scared before, practically _runs_ on the feeling and isn’t sure how to function without it, figures he’d probably keel over or some shit from the lack of adrenaline-fueled motivation. But being scared of his dad’s fists and his open-ended, probable death threats, of what people will think when they know—which is jack shit, apparently, which Mickey _still_ doesn’t understand—is nothing compared to this kind of fear that eats at his bones like a disease.

He stands in the doorway to his room, one hand on the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, and maybe it is; Mickey keeps swaying on his feet every time he tries to walk away, so he isn’t necessarily ruling it out.

Ian hasn’t moved since he’d told Mickey to leave him alone, and that was, what—fuck, five hours ago? If Mickey wasn’t looking closely, wasn’t finely attuned to Ian’s body—as gay as that sounds—he’d think he was dead, the rise and fall of his side under the thin white blanket is that unnoticeable.

The word stirs up something sour in Mickey’s chest, sourer even than the cheapest whiskey he’s ever had. He’d been afraid Ian was dead, once, weeks after he’d shipped out to the fucking _army_ , but that was because he’d had no connection, no way to contact Ian. Now it’s scarier, because now Ian _is_ here and Mickey still can’t do a goddamn thing as Ian lies in bed like a zombie, speaking only enough to get his point across, his voice a hoarse, hushed whisper that reminds Mickey of the way the leaves scrape and scatter on the sidewalks in the fall.

Tears sting at Mickey’s eyes and he wipes them quickly away before they can actually fall, sets his jaw against the rush of emotion that’s painful like when he eats something too sweet. He’s been taking care of Ian since he brought him back, and it’s made him feel vindicated, like all of that awful shit he’d been doing for years has been wiped clean and they can start over being what Mickey had been trying so hard to deny. Ian’s never brought it up, has been going-going-going for whatever reason, full of endless energy that makes Mickey’s head ache just trying to think about keeping up.

But this Ian is so different from that Ian.

Those few days seem like a lifetime ago, the punches and blood and those words coming out of his mouth too-loud and almost like a foreign language. It’s a jumbled, oil-painting blur, Mickey still unsure _how_ , exactly, he’d had the balls to say that shit in a room full of drunken southsiders, most of whom had a rap sheet practically as long as the fucking block.

In between the days after the fight, when they’d gone back home and cleaned the blood off of each other, when they’d fallen naked into bed because they _could_ now, didn’t have any reason to hide and were pumped up on post-fight adrenaline anyway and the only way to exert it was to fuck like they normally did. Mickey had fucking _loved_ it, had felt less like there was a semi on his back and more like—well, he didn’t know what carefree felt like but he could hedge a guess that this was as fucking close to it as he’d ever get; those few days they’d gotten, where they could be freely open with each other, had been the best of Mickey’s life.

But somehow, in between falling asleep and waking up to Ian’s arm draped over him, fingers loosely clasped on Mickey’s wrist, the world had shifted drastically on its axis and jumbled everything up.

Mickey wants to yell at Ian, tell him to get the fuck up, what is his fucking problem, but it just doesn’t seem right. He chews on his thumbnail, digs the nails of his hand against the frame into the wood. His heart sinks just a little bit lower in his chest as every minutes go by without Ian moving, without him saying anything or even acknowledging Mickey’s presence.

He doesn’t know if he loves Ian—he hadn’t been lying when he’d told Svetlana that. Mandy is the only person Mickey has ever actually bothered to care about, and what he feels for her stems more from a pit-bull-like protection instinct. Though, if he’s being honest with himself—which he’s been doing more and more and is a weird fucking feeling—it isn’t actually too different from what he feels for Ian, differentiates only by the weird fluttery feeling in his chest that Mickey gets whenever he’s around him. He guesses that’s probably a yes.

So maybe he does. Maybe Mickey Milkovich has fucking fallen in love. It wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. Besides, love in the southside basically just means you’d kill for that person, maybe save them before saving yourself. Love always involves a certain amount of self-sacrifice, and Mickey knows this, has lost count of the punches he’s fielded to protect Mandy; here, the stakes are just higher.

And if he’s in love with Ian, so what. It’s not like he’s going to start drawing fucking hearts in notebooks or carving their initials into trees or some shit. He’s never let anything define him before and he’s definitely not going to start now.

Mickey starts feeling cagey, standing here staring at Ian, so he stalks into the living room, unearths the ancient laptop that shouldn’t work but still does despite the numerous porn-related viruses from his brothers, and sits down at the table. He opens it and stares at his reflection, the cut on his nose and the one above his eyebrow, the deep downturn of his lips and the worry between his brows.

He’s never heard of this bipolar disease or whatever before, but all he can hear as the laptop boots up is Fiona’s voice saying, “ _He could become suicidal_ ” over and over like a needle stuck on a record. His fingers tap, nicotine craving-style, on the tabletop, like he’s trying to drown out those echoes.

In Mickey’s mind, “suicidal” is about as far from “Ian Gallagher” as “his life” is to “easy.” But he still goes to Google, hovers over the little search bar before slowly, tentatively, typing. He starts with _bipolar_ , lets Google autocomplete the rest.

And it’s all so painfully clear, as Mickey scrolls through website after website, eyes scanning over words and phrases that he doesn’t know but that make sense, that this is what Ian has, what he’s been suffering from, and Mickey wants to kick himself. _How_ could he be so fucking stupid? He’d been deluding himself since Ian got back that it had just been drugs or something, some sort of substance that Ian could quit before returning to his normal goofy, overly-sappy self.

Having it in black-and-white, causes and symptoms and treatments all laid out in front of him, Mickey knows that things are going to be permanently changed, no matter what he or the rest of the Gallaghers do—and he’s sure as shit not carting Ian off to some mental hospital where he’ll be one anonymous face in dozens and no one will really care about _him_ , no one will know what to tell him or how to comfort him the way Mickey knows.

Mickey doesn’t realize he’s crying until the salt in the tear burns at the still-sore wound on the side of his nose, and he angrily rubs it away, squeezes his eyes shut and takes deep breaths. There’s no reason to fall apart now. He has to keep it together.

Slamming the laptop shut, Mickey leaves it on the table, heads back towards the closed door of his room with only a little trepidation. Though he expects it, seeing Ian in the same position, his back to the door with the sheet just barely covering his hips, still hurts, and the image squeezes at Mickey’s chest until he’s fighting to breathe normally.

He said he’d take care of Ian, and a Milkovich is always good for their word.

He’s quick and quiet in stripping down to his underwear, crawls slowly on the bed until his front is pressed to Ian’s back. He splays his hand out on the warm curve of Ian’s shoulder, just for the acknowledgment that Ian’s still alive, and exhales a ragged gust of air.

“I’m always gonna be here for you,” he murmurs, expecting no reply and getting none. Words have never been his forte but for some reason now they’re loosened, flowing out with ease as he settles more of his body against Ian’s, the warmth familiar and comforting. If he closes his eyes he can almost pretend that Ian hasn’t been in this bed for two days. When he speaks again his voice wavers, unsteady, and he doesn’t try to hide it, figures why bother. “I’m not gonna leave you again.”

What Mickey gets in response are weak, loose fingers trembling up to cover his.


End file.
